Chasing Destiny
by noenigma
Summary: A pivotal time in the life of James Hathaway and three things that will influence the direction it will take. Spoilers for season 5.
1. Prologue

A look back on a pivotal time in the life of Sergeant Hathaway. Spoilers for season five. Author's Note: Soon after I finished the Shooting stories, Sarahloulabellx asked if I'd consider writing something similar involving Hathaway. My immediate response was a very loud and clear 'no'. Stories like that leave a lot of wear and tear on their writers and I was still reeling from After the Shooting. Plus they are a lot of work, especially doing something in a similar vein as one I'd just finished and still make it uniquely its own. But, most of all, the reason for that 'no' was because the whole idea was very intimidating. If after 13 Morse novels and 53 Morse and Lewis episodes I was barely capable of turning out a serviceable story featuring my favorite sergeant…how in the world would I manage to write one about the new guy? Hathaway being reserved and private and me being quiet and shy…after only 20 episodes, we're barely to the point where we nod in greeting when we pass in the halls. And he's certainly never introduced me to the people in his life who in a story of that sort would be bound to poke their heads in to say 'hello' at the very least. All that added up to a definite 'no'.

But the idea itself was persistent and seductive. It promised me we could just dip our toes into the water and not have to dive into the deep end…I'll leave it up to you to decide if it is fortunate or unfortunate that I am so incredibly gullible. Thanks to Sarahloulabellx for the idea.

Disclaimer: Purely for fan purposes. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chasing Destiny**

_Prologue: Threes_

When Sergeant James Hathaway of the Oxfordshire Police was just shy of his thirty-third birthday, events conspired to make him almost believe the old saying that things come in threes.

First, his boss Inspector Lewis plopped a very heavy, very official, very intimidating box of materials on Hathaway's desk right next to his laptop.

"There you are," Lewis said. "Not that I think you need to worry but best to be prepared."

Hathaway frowned over the box. Review material for the OSPRE exam. There had been times when he'd toyed with the idea of taking it and trying for a shot at promotion, but he'd lately decided against doing so. He'd stick with the job until Lewis retired, and then he'd look elsewhere. Policing wasn't for him, not in the long term. Professor Pinnock's offer of the junior research fellowship in theology at St. Gerards had called to him with a surprisingly seductive intensity. He'd passed on it mainly because he enjoyed working with Lewis and wasn't quite ready to give that up. And because he'd had the sense there were still things to learn where he was. But, once Lewis was gone…he knew now he would be moving on.

"What's this for, Sir?" he asked. "I'm not interested in going for my inspector's."

"So you say now. You might think differently down the road. It won't hurt to have the test behind you either way."

"I'm not taking it."

"Oh, but you are, Sergeant. I've had a word with our great leader, and she concurs…it's high time you proved your mettle. Besides, what's got you into such a snit anyway? I passed the test—you certainly can. Probably with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back. Perfect opportunity to show that superior intellect of yours." Hathaway glared daggers at the inspector, but Lewis merely grinned his say-what-you-will-you'll-do-it-anyway grin and strode out of the room. Hathaway transferred his glare to the box he'd left behind, but it was no more effective against OSPRE than it had been against Lewis.

He couldn't know it then, but Lewis and DCS Innocent were spot on insisting he take the examination; he wouldn't be leaving the police force…not for a good long time to come. He would always look longingly at scholarly, ecclesiastical positions because although he'd left the priesthood he would never quite shake the calling. But he would never actually give up his badge. There'd always be one more thing to learn or solve or accomplish that would keep him with the force. In due time, he would accept the promotion to inspector and from there…well, Innocent had known he was headed for the top when she'd brought him on board. It came as no surprise to her. Lewis thought it was a laugh and joshed him over it frequently. Knowing that without his old inspector he would have turned in his papers a half-dozen times in those early years and never have become the detective he was, Hathaway laughed along with him.

And it all started with that box plopped down beside his laptop.

The second thing that came into his life was a girl. No, he was almost thirty-three and she was near enough to the same age. So, not a girl. A woman. The woman.

She wasn't at all his type. Almost the exact opposite. No grand ambitions, no driving need for excellence, no posh accent or airs, no restlessness, no need to prove herself better than anyone at all. She was content with her life, happy even. She wasn't looking for a career…as long as the bills were paid and there was a bit left over to take off to parts unknown when the fancy struck just for the fun of it or because she'd never been, any job would do. She wasn't out to change the world. It had survived on its own before her and she figured it would continue once she was gone. Life was for living and enjoying.

All in all, she was a bewildering and inexplicable creature to Hathaway who had always thrived on order and lived life methodically and rather carefully. Infuriating as he found her, she was just the woman he needed nevertheless. She brought laughter and spontaneity to his life. Yet, she had no interest in changing him or making him into someone he was not. Though she'd jolly him out of his melancholy, over-thought ways if he wallowed in them for too long, and she'd get after him a bit if he started taking himself and life too seriously, she was happy with him essentially just the way he was. He never had to worry she'd leave him to advance her own career or because he didn't meet her standards.

Though it was something else he couldn't have known at the time, over the years, he would learn to live with her hit and miss approach to most things, and he'd even come to appreciate it. Where other spouses and significant others complained and fought against the unpredictable hours and stresses of the CID, she took them in stride and helped him to do the same. When the job would be just too much for a man who had meant to be a priest or later when he'd get bogged down with the nitty-gritty of policing, she would keep him from sinking into despair or throwing in the towel in frustration.

He hadn't been looking for her and he was far from happy to make her acquaintance. He'd missed one too many gigs with the band…she'd been brought in not to replace him but to stand in when he failed to show. He was glad to discover she wasn't all that good. Not that she cared. She was there to have fun and wasn't interested in competing with him or anyone else. He bristled at her presence, but the rest of the band accepted her wholeheartedly. They really did need someone to cover his all-too-frequent, last minute absences. She either ignored or didn't even notice his antagonism, and by the time his birthday arrived, he'd forgotten what he'd ever had against her. By then, he no longer knew how he'd ever survived without her laughing, joyful presence in his life.

Of course, he almost hadn't survived to reach that birthday with or without her in his life. For the third thing that came into his life was a bullet, and it almost killed him.


	2. Part One: Pursuit

**Part One: Pursuit**

_Chapter One: Chasing a Killer_

The case started out complicated—with a maybe murder victim and maybe nothing but a nutter with the right access to dismembered body parts causing trouble—and stayed that way throughout the investigation.

Somewhere, somehow, Hathaway had fallen behind in the chase though he didn't know it until it was almost too late. After working five years with the man, the times were getting fewer and fewer when Hathaway found himself as clueless as Watson and just as open-mouthed and astonished by the amazing feat of detection Inspector Lewis had managed to pull off right before his eyes. But, it still wasn't all that unusual for him to arrive at the solution of the case a step or two behind Lewis. More like the norm, although there had been a few exhilarating times when they'd arrived simultaneously.

But, this case…they'd all, Lewis included, left the latest briefing clueless and no closer to solving the mystery than they'd been at the beginning. The only real progress they'd made was in knowing that, yes, they did have a killer on the loose. A ruthless, intelligent killer who wasn't done yet.

Hathaway had had an idea that a certain witness might be able to shed a bit of light on the subject. Lewis, who'd obviously been just as lost and befuddled as his sergeant, had said, "Well, off you go then. As likely as anything else, I reckon. I'll head back to Woodstock."

"Again? You've already been, Sir. Two times this week alone, isn't it? What do you expect to find there now that we haven't already?"

Lewis had thrown up a frustrated hand. "No idea, but it beats spinning my wheels staring at the walls here. Ah! I don't know—there's got to be something there. We're just not seeing it."

And off they'd gone their separate ways. Besides finding himself in the midst of a very perplexing murder enquiry, Hathaway was also conducting—more like being carried away by—a whirlwind romance with the infuriating, new member in the band. He was meant to be picnicking (not his thing actually, dining with ants and flies and picking dirt out of his dinner. Not his thing at all, but _she _seemed to think a week wasn't complete without at least one picnic) and then rowing his favorite stretch of river. He did not want to be beating his head against the brick wall of this stalled-out investigation. That, as far as he knew, was exactly what they—and half the force—were doing and would be doing for the foreseeable future.

And, then, just like that, Lewis was on the mobile ordering, "Get a warrant and get over here now. It's Gallin." And how he'd somehow arrived at the murderer and that unlikely murderer in particular, his sergeant couldn't even begin to guess.

Lewis hadn't stayed on long enough to tell him any more, and worse, he hadn't stayed on long enough for Hathaway to tell him the one interesting bit of information he'd gleaned from his witness. He'd thought it was irrelevant and as unimportant as everything else they'd learned on the case when he'd heard it. Now it just might end up being significant after all. Elsa Gallin, who didn't look as though she could hurt a fly and whom Lewis has just named as their murderer, owned a very serviceable, very deadly firearm and was known to be rather more than a good shot.

It was something Lewis should know before he confronted the old lady. Heading back to the station to obtain a warrant—and how he was supposed to do that without even a clue how Lewis had fingered Gallin was beyond him, though he would have gotten it done if he hadn't run off to get shot instead—Hathaway tried to reach Lewis. When he couldn't get through, he made the decision that would almost cost him his life. He forgot the warrant and went racing out towards Woodstock instead.

Inspector Lewis had blundered into a confrontation with a murderer or two before in his career as a CID officer. And he'd rushed headlong into one when he'd thought his sergeant might be in trouble. In the process, he'd once ended up on the wrong end of a shot gun, once he'd taken a blow to the head with the butt end of a firearm (which certainly beat the bullet he easily could have gotten instead), and once he'd nearly had his arm broken for his troubles. (And that wasn't counting the times he'd gotten too close to killers unawares and been knocked silly or the time he'd stood too close to a murderer and taken some buckshot when Richie Maguire had taken matters into his own hands.)

Policing, even in Oxford, could be a dangerous profession. Hathaway was right to be worried about Lewis off in Woodstock with a murderer. For his part though, Lewis had wisely decided to play it safe. He'd put in the call to Hathaway from the safety of his car parked down the road and out of sight of the Gallin estate. He'd followed that call up—or at least attempted to, anyway—with a heads-up to Chief Superintendent Innocent who he knew would not take kindly to the news yet another of Oxford's upper echelon had taken to murder. He thought he might save Hathaway an earful by informing her before his sergeant sent the request for a warrant through.

Sadly, Elsa Gallin hadn't been safely holed up in her mansion waiting for Hathaway to arrive with the proper paperwork and backup. Out of sight herself, she'd watched Lewis going over the crime scene one more time. And, because she was the one who'd left it there, she saw when his gaze had sharpened over the one clue she'd been unable to erase. When he knelt there beside it and stared off into the distance as though he could see across the fields and through the houses into her own home and soul…that was when she'd known it was either her or him.

And she was the one with the gun.

_Chapter Two: Chasing a Bullet_

Threes. It was the third time Lewis had returned to frown at the frustratingly unhelpful scene. Almost certainly, three of their murder victims had died at that very spot. And, there were three bullets in play that fateful afternoon.

Lewis never saw the first one coming. It blasted through his passenger side window and shot straight through the mobile in his hand without any warning whatsoever. Its force tore the phone from him and slammed it into the window beside him…or maybe he involuntarily threw it there himself in surprised alarm before he actually took in what had just happened.

Regardless, he never finished that call to Innocent. Before he could react or really even understand the situation, Elsa Gallin used the butt end of her weapon to break through the far window. She trained it right at his horrified face, and he lifted his hands without making her have to ask. Despite the fact that, up until his discovery at the murder scene a few moments before, she'd reminded Lewis of his granny, she meant business. She slid into the back seat of his car and directed him back to the crime scene.

Elsa was one of five daughters born to the Gallin who'd made such a name for himself and left a fortune to those who came after him. She was a benevolent philanthropist, a darling of Oxford society, and a beloved children's book author. And a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer who had systematically and carefully eliminated everyone who stood to gain a portion of her father's vast estate. She'd almost gotten away with it, and she wasn't ready to give it all up just because Lewis had tumbled onto her secret. She still thought she had a chance of escaping justice if she took the too-good-for-his-own-good inspector out of the picture.

"It won't do," he tried to tell her when he'd recovered enough to find his voice. "I've already called it in…kill me or not, the game's up." She answered that and all of his other gambits and pleas with only silence in the few short minutes it took to reach their destination. She'd fired a gun in broad daylight, and surely someone had had the sense to dial 999 and send some help his way. The careful planning that had let her almost get away with the other murders had gone out his window as surely as the bullet had come through it. Even if he hadn't already named her to Hathaway, her hours were numbered. But, in the meantime, so were his.

Poor Lyn. She'd wanted to see him safely out to pasture, wanted him to be there to laugh and sing and marvel at the grand baby she'd been so happy to be giving him. And now, instead, she'd be an orphan. He'd been more than a grown man when his mother had died; yet, he'd still been struck with the awful hopelessness of a deserted child when he'd realized he was parentless in the world. He didn't want to abandon Lyn to that same fate. And Ken…wherever he was Down Under, doing whatever he was doing. Lewis had hoped the two of them would one day find common ground and once more be part of each others' lives. He didn't want to leave his son to deal with the regrets of their estrangement without hope of ever mending it.

And Laura. "Ganza really proves it…we don't get many chances," he'd told her after leaving the psychiatrist reading the Jumblies to his wife who was never going to wake up. Lewis hadn't missed the fact that that could have been him easily enough. He'd never been sure what the good doctor saw in him, but he knew, whatever it was, she'd thought it was worth waiting for. Ganza was prepared to sit and wait for his wife to wake up forever if that's what it took. And Laura, she'd been prepared to wait for him just as long as it took for him to get around to picking up the shattered pieces of his heart and being ready to love again. Seeing Ganza…he'd realized he couldn't keep making her wait. He didn't want to waste all the time she'd put into him, didn't want to waste the chance she'd taken on him. Or the one she offered him. He'd been determined to not keep her waiting any longer. But he'd left it too late. He'd missed his chance after all.

The last thing he'd meant to do when he'd left the station that afternoon was to end up getting himself killed. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have much choice in the matter; Gallin was the one with the gun.

What little hope he had took a major hit when Gallin recognized the foolishness of taking him to the one place Hathaway or anyone else could easily presume to find him and where they would doubtlessly waste precious time looking for him first. Instead, she ordered him back the way they'd come, back to the Gallin estate with its countless sheds and outhouses and obscuring hedgerows.

He'd gone along quietly enough with driving to the crime scene, but he wasn't about to help her hide his car and make it easy and convenient for her to hide his body as well. No. That wasn't going to happen.

Lewis assumed, oddly enough, that Hathaway would have done what he'd been told and so was back at the station obtaining his warrant. He couldn't hope that his sergeant was racing to his rescue. Even if he had, he wouldn't have guessed just how close Hathaway was. It was Lewis who had always loved speed. Morse's jag had had permanent indentions where the chief inspector had dug his fingers into the armrest when they'd barreled along after one bad guy or another. But that was in the good old days. Under the directives of what now passed for modern policing in the Thames Valley… well, even with a flashing, blue light stuck to the roof of his car and a siren running other vehicles off the road, a copper had be careful. So, if Lewis had known Hathaway was on his way, he still would never have expected his cautious, by-the-book sergeant to be practically on his tail.

It helped that Hathaway had already been on his way when the call had come through that a possible shot had been fired in Lewis' vicinity. Something told him that he didn't have time to take the scenic route, and though his careful nature discouraged careening about at high speeds…he made extraordinarily good time and arrived at the crime scene just in time to catch a glimpse of Lewis' dark blue Vauxhill driving away. He chased after it, calling in the sighting and requesting backup.

Earlier, when the report of the shooting had come through, he'd informed dispatch that Inspector Lewis was in the area and had reason to believe a suspect was as well. But…so, the inspector had turned off his mobile. That hardly warranted calling out the troops. Hathaway knew better than most that Lewis and mobiles weren't always compatible. And, so, Lewis thought he had a lead on their killer. And, so, Hathaway had a halfway notion she might be armed. She wouldn't be the first. They didn't call out the special operations team just because someone had a gun quite possibly stuck in a gun cabinet somewhere.

Hathaway had used his flashing, blue light, and he'd exceeded the recommended speed limits along the way, but he hadn't had ample reason to alert his fellow police officers to the possibility that his boss was in danger. And that brief glimpse of Lewis' car traveling in the general area he was supposed to be at…it really shouldn't have been enough to warrant a distress call either. Likely, if there hadn't been that probable shot fired call, he would have hesitated even longer. Fortunately, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention when he saw that bit of blue driving away and prompted him to make that call…he wouldn't have lived if help wouldn't have been barreling along only moments behind him when he went down.

Lewis drew the second bullet when he decided he wasn't going to go gently into the night. He turned away from the Gallin mansion and headed out the lonely stretch of road besides which Sylvia Kane and Mary Widdowson had stood in the pouring rain waiting to catch the last bus to Woodstock all those years ago. He couldn't endanger innocent civilians in the process of getting himself done in. And, he needed it to happen in the open where she couldn't hide her handiwork.

Elsa Gallin fired that second shot to express her disapproval of the change in plans. Fortunately for Lewis, she still thought she had a snowball's chance of getting away with his murder or she would have put it through the back of his head right where he sat and let momentum do for her what the bullet would have for him.

Whatever he was going to do, it seemed liked the time to do it. He turned the car sharply and drove it down into the shallow, sloping ditch beside the road. He slammed on the brakes and was out of his door in a heartbeat. She wasn't as spry or as young as he was, and he hoped…well, not really. She'd shot the phone right out of his hands. She didn't have to be able to catch up with him when he took off running; her bullet would do the job for her. Still, he ran. He scurried up the bank back onto the road. With a little luck, maybe the slope would slow Gallin down or at least throw off her aim.

Hathaway was not far behind them when Lewis made his move. Any lingering questions he had about whether the inspector needed his assistance or not were answered as he saw Lewis' car slew sideways and run down into the ditch and then watched Lewis scramble out of it and up to the road.

Hathaway gunned his own car and hurtled on towards that third bullet.

The ditch had been the best Lewis could do to buy himself a little time, but it wasn't enough. His assailant was not anywhere near ready for a wheelchair or nursing home, and she was driven with the physical frenzy of the insane and desperate. She almost topped the slight rise before he'd cleared the road. Between him and the beckoning safety of the thick hedgerow beyond it there was only a narrow, grassy strip. She would have had a better shot if she'd ran after him just a few more steps up the bank, but she wasn't willing to take the chance he'd make it to cover before she brought him down. If she would have waited, if she would have taken just three more steps up that bank…things might have been considerably different. But, she had no intention of letting him get away and she didn't wait. Instead, she took careful aim adjusting for the upward angle of the shot and there was nothing between her and her running target.

And, then, there was a silver blur and the kick of the gun. The man she'd aimed to bring down kept on for a stride or two longer; the one she'd never seen coming slumped over the wheel of his car as it too slew sideways and careened off the road to come to a jolting stop beside Lewis'.

Lewis stumbled to a halt. He gasped for air and fought against the panicked urge to put what distance he could between him and his assailant while he struggled to understand what had just happened. There was the sound of an engine running, wheels spinning against gravel, an anguished, disbelieving howl from the woman behind him, his own ragged breathing, and the galloping of his heart trying to beat itself right out of his chest. He was alive, upright, uninjured, untouched by the gunshot that still echoed through the air around him.

And there was Hathaway's car still rocking to a stop beside his in their make-do car park.

Gallin stared open-mouthed across the road at Lewis. He shook himself as though to throw off his confusion and darted after her. Her fight and madness had left her. It only took an instant to have her safely subdued in the back of his car.

And then…there were sirens coming from somewhere, drawing closer and closer, rushing down on them moment by moment, but for Lewis time was a palpable wall of resistance, trapping his feet in cloying clay, forming a restraining barrier between him and his sergeant.

"Man down!" he yelled into his mobile as he forcefully fought his way to Hathaway through time's grasping hold. He gave their position quickly and let the phone drop to the ground as he pulled open the car door.

"Ah…Hathaway, man," he said weakly, gently easing the younger man back against the car seat and pushing his hand against the gushing wound in Hathaway's chest. "What were you thinking? You're not Superman."

_Chapter Three: Chasing Redemption_

If he could have worked out the words to answer Lewis' ragged and tortured 'what were you thinking?' Hathaway would have truthfully said he hadn't expected to have to be faster than a speeding bullet. He had not consciously chosen to take that third shot for Lewis. There hadn't been time to consider what he was doing, just the overriding need to get between it and Lewis. It had been instinctive and almost involuntary, and he hadn't looked ahead to its possible consequences. He had understood that gun pointed at Lewis had been deadly and all-too-real. But, the peril to himself—he hadn't actually _believed_ in it. Perhaps, his subconscious did think he was Superman.

And, yet, if he would have been able to process what he was about to do in the fraction of the moment he'd had to see Lewis' plight and react …he wouldn't have hesitated or chosen otherwise. If it came down to taking that bullet himself or letting it slam into Lewis—he would have taken it every time.

He couldn't tell that to Lewis though. Not then, and not in the days and years after. An odd sort of paradox existed between CID inspectors and their sergeants…or at least this particular CID inspector and his sergeant. DI Lewis was of the persuasion that it was his place to be and do and if, God forbid, the need ever arose sacrifice all for his sergeant. DS Hathaway believed the exact opposite. The one believed the inspector was there for the sergeant and the other that the sergeant was there for the inspector. The two views were diametrically opposed, and Hathaway was too clever to waste time arguing an irrefutable truth with Lewis who as an inspector unquestionably believed what as a sergeant he had never considered to be even remotely true.

Lewis hovered over Hathaway in the grips of disbelief. The world had fallen apart far too quickly for him to truly comprehend what had happened or what was happening in those few brief moments before they were swarmed with rescue workers and backup. In all his years as a cop, he'd seen just as much death as many soldiers. He'd seen the harm and ruin that hate and envy, jealousy and greed, indifference and stupidity, and that horrible devouring need for revenge could do.

But, still. Somehow, somewhere deep down, he was fundamentally still Morse's sergeant with the half-full glass. Morse, his hands frozen in terror to the steering wheel, sitting beside a body with a knife protruding grotesquely from it; Hathaway, looking at him through dimming, pain-widened eyes behind another steering wheel, blood seeping hot and wet and without letup past Lewis' fingers. The 'great bloke' to whom Lewis had entrusted his wife; the woman that had made him smile and think of his own granny…murderers both, cold-blooded, heartless mass murderers. Lewis couldn't comprehend any of it. Not deep down in his soul even on his darkest days, and not in the rational part of his mind as the fear he'd felt for himself moments before changed into a cold, gripping dread for his sergeant.

Hathaway, though…he'd never been that young sergeant Lewis still was deep down. Jonjo Reed had once accused him of being born middle-aged, and, perhaps, he had been. Sitting there, pain and shock warring through him and leaving him strangely numb while at the same time at the mercy of the violently intense feelings and memories and emotions sweeping through him, he understood clearly all that had happened to bring him to this frozen moment of time. The case itself, the years with Lewis, the years before. It all finally made perfect sense.

For that instant, he was content with himself and with all the choices that had sent him rushing heedlessly forward to get between Lewis and that bullet. An act of contrition, his act of contrition…saving a good man—perhaps the only, truly good man, he'd ever known.

He couldn't have asked for a better end…better timing, certainly. He understood now, saw now, what he'd been blind to these last few weeks with Ellie. Understood finally and completely what it was to love someone…that was a nice, unexpected bonus at the end of the day. But, this…a noble, self-sacrificing death. Not bad at all for a man who would have been a priest.

Or for a boy who had grown-up seeking atonement and only now found there'd been no need. He'd spent his life struggling and fighting for what had already been freely given. All that work, all that endless seeking and striving…and all the time the peace and forgiveness he'd sought had been there for the taking. _Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest._He understood now. The work had been done, the price had been paid, the battle for the life that really mattered had already been fought and won on a cross over two thousand years before he himself had even been born.

Finally, at what seemed to be the end of his life there was the rest and peace he'd spent it seeking. The pain didn't fade. Nor did the desperate, physical struggle to go on breathing for one more minute, to hold onto the preciousness of life for just a little longer. But, the regrets and fears and guilt with which he'd faced life disappeared.

He most definitely had not lived a sinless life, yet, in his new-found, spiritual understanding, he discovered the one sin that had haunted him—the one he'd spent his life working to blot out—it wasn't his and had never been. That boy he'd been, seeking forgiveness, seeking to make amends…there'd been no sin behind the guilt that had followed him through the years. Not on the boy's part anyway.

He'd been a small child in a grown-up world. What Lewis had told him that day at Crevecoeur Hall, what he'd wanted to believe and never quite been able to make himself…it had been true. He hadn't been at fault for what had happened there when he'd been young. He hadn't even understood what he'd glimpsed and feared and _sensed_ was happening out in that summerhouse. He'd had no part in the young lives destroyed there. Even if he had understood what was happening…he'd been too young to save them.

_James the Just_ Mortmaigne had said they'd called him. He hadn't remembered that, maybe never even known it. But there must have been something in the way his younger self had met the world that had given Mortmaigne pause. That had somehow ensured the man never touched the young boy he'd been. Something God-given, certainly not something he had used to protect himself while leaving the other children to suffer a horrible fate. He hadn't sacrificed their lives for his own. Hadn't sinned in coming through those danger-fraught days unscathed. All those years, always working, always striving to earn forgiveness for a sin he'd never committed, for surviving was not a sin.

And, so, finally, he could face his death with a peace and equanimity he'd never had in life. He blinked up at Lewis struggling desperately to staunch the blood warmly making its way to gather in a puddle on the seat under him. If he could have choked out the words he would have told the inspector that same truth. _Surviving is not a sin, Sir. Forgive yourself for being alive while your wife is dead. And me._

_*The __Inspector Morse__ referenced here is _Driven to Distraction_…a rather pivotal episode for our Sergeant Lewis._

_+ Matthew 11:28_


	3. Part Two: In Fate's Wake

Part Two: In Fate's Wake

But he was beyond words and even his sight was failing him. He reached up a feeble hand and placed it over Lewis'.

"It's all right, James," Lewis told him reassuringly. "It's all right." Hathaway nodded weakly in agreement. He closed his eyes and relaxed slightly in that certainty.

Lewis despaired watching Hathaway seem to acquiesce to his death. As far as he was concerned, everything was far from all right. He wanted to yell and scream and order Hathaway to open his eyes, to hold on, to fight, to wave a defiant fist at the Grim Reaper and spit in death's face. But, he didn't.

He'd begged Val to live, cried and railed and pleaded with her to not leave him…and if she had heard him, what had he done? There'd been nothing she could have done against the massive injuries…if she'd heard him, if she'd tried to do as he demanded—he had robbed her of whatever peace she might have found in those last few hours of her life. He regretted that. If he could have lived those hours over, he would have sat quietly beside her and talked of the life and love they had shared. He'd have called up the times of laughter and joy and triumphant. He'd have assured her it was all right to let go; he would have given her the chance to let death come quietly and peaceably. He would have held her hand and told her how much he loved her without demanding she prove her love by living.

That's why he didn't rail as Hathaway closed his eyes and relaxed. "It's all right, James," he repeated quietly though the tears in his voice denied the truth of his words.

"Sir. We need access, Sir. Please step aside…we've got him," someone said and gentle hands pulled him away. He stumbled back and someone put a steadying hand on his shoulder and began to draw him off to the side.

"Are you all right, Sir?" a voice asked, and what could he say to that? How could he be all right when his sergeant was dying in his place? How could the lad have done such a thing…put himself right in the way of a bullet with Lewis' name on it? He was old and tired and he was the inspector. The lad had hardly gotten a good start on life yet, and he was just a sergeant. Lewis' job to look out for the kid, see he was safe and didn't go running off and making himself a target. Not the lad's place to be taking bullets for him. "Sir? Sir!"

He roused himself to try to convince whoever was yelling in his face that he was okay, but it was too late by then. They bundled him up in warm blankets and all but carried him into the waiting ambulance. He drank what they forced into his hands and didn't try to get up and prove he was okay because his legs wouldn't hold him. DI Grainger stuck his head in with a 'so sorry about this, Robbie…but what's the story with the old lady?' Lewis stumbled through an abbreviated report, and Grainger hauled Gallin off to the nick.

And, then, finally, they trundled Hathaway in. There were tubes and whatnot coming from every which way until Lewis could hardly make out his sergeant's face, but thankfully, oh so thankfully, all those tubes and such were a million times better than the black plastic he'd been afraid he'd see in their place.

Lewis didn't remember the ambulance ride. He did have vague recollections of Hathaway being whisked away and looking down into the pale, worried faces of DCS Innocent and Laura Hobson as someone helped him out of the ambulance. There must have been things said there, questions asked, reassurances given, something. Possibly Innocent had placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, and probably Laura had slipped her arm around him to keep him upright and offer her support. But none of it had registered on his awareness long enough to become a memory. Those first long hours of waiting were just a blur.

At some point, the blokes from the station began poking their heads in and murmuring in his direction. He couldn't have taken in their words if the fate of the world had depended on them, but the anxious faces and the heavy hands on his shoulder told him the message they were meant to convey. Everyone back at the nick was rooting for Hathaway. Lewis supposed it needed said, but it didn't help any. Not him anyway.

He was just as unable to take in the surgeon's words once the emergency team had had time to take a look at the sergeant and assess his chances. _Massive. Hemorrhage. Extensive. Damage. Heart. Probable. Arrest. Possible. Hypoxia. Brain. Time. Lack. Row. Hoe. _He heard them well enough; they just didn't make any sense. Or perhaps he just didn't want them to make any sense.

The neurosurgeon who had spoken to him in London after Val…had been…after Val. He'd been blunt and merciless and Lewis who had arrived believing, having to believe or surely he'd never have survived the trip to London, that yes, there might be a long road ahead of them, but she'd recover—of course, she'd recover, she had to—hadn't been at all prepared to hear the harsh, callous words without even an insincere 'sorry' thrown in to soften their impact.

"I'm really not sure why they called me in. She's as good as dead already. The damage to the brain, irreparable. I've the test results if you'd like to take a look…these sorts of injuries—higher brain functions already gone; the brain stem will follow quickly. Matter of hours, if not sooner, and that will be it. Someone will be along to speak to you about organ donation."

He'd had no way of shielding himself from the awful finality of those words, nothing to blunt their devastating blow, nothing to ward off their terrible certainly. So, perhaps…he'd found a way to not hear what this other surgeon had to say. To not have to know if this one knew the word 'sorry', if this one knew that words could wound and destroy as much as hitting the pavement at thirty miles an hour. Maybe he didn't want to come out of his shocked numbness and know what that bullet had done tearing its way through Hathaway.

"Hey, Robbie?" Someone didn't want to leave him to it. "Robbie, come on, old man."

He frowned up and struggled to put a name to the face. "Rick." DI Rick Paulings. They'd both 'come up' to Oxford the same year. They'd seen a lot together, withstood a lot through the years since then.

"Yeah, come on. I'm taking you home."

"Can't go."

"Well, you can't stay here like that. Look at yourself, man. The kids' folks will be here soon…you can't meet them covered in his blood. Come on. A shower and a change, and I'll have you back here before he's out of surgery." The kid's folks. _Oh._ Lewis closed his eyes against the emotions that thought provoked. From somewhere he dredged up the strength to stand. Not steadily he guessed as Paulings, Hobson, and Innocent all held out their hands as though to spot him. _Pull yourself together, man._

The trip home and back…he leaned his head against the car door and closed his eyes and tried to disappear into thoughtlessness. But his mind had a will of its own.

"Why'd he do it?" he demanded.

Rick snorted softly. "You know that, Robbie—"

"No! I don't. He's young, got his whole life before him—me, I'm old, done for."

"Hardly that. I hear you and Hobson…and what's this about Lyn and a baby? You've got miles to go before you sleep, old man."

"Maybe. But Hathaway. That was my bullet, Rick. He shouldn't have taken it."

"Oh. Now we're calling bullets, are we?"

Lewis stirred enough to open his eyes and turn to glare at him. "He's just a sergeant. He should have kept his head down!"

"What and watched you die? You're not thinking straight."

"He's smarter than that…running in front of a bullet. Bloody reckless. He's too careful for such nonsense."

"He wasn't being foolhardy, Robbie. He was saving your-"

"He shouldn't have been though! Why'd he throw his life away on a bloody useless blighter like me?"

His friend pulled up at his flat and turned off the car. He looked over at Lewis and quietly said,

"He's your sergeant, Robbie. You ought to know the answer to that."

"What's that supposed to mean? He is my sergeant…makes me his inspector. Makes me the one who takes the hit if there's one to take, and him the one to stay out of the way!"

"All those years, Robbie. You and Morse…you want to pretend you wouldn't have taken a bullet for the chief inspector if one had come any time during those years?"

Lewis, as impossible as it seemed, actually managed to look even more hammered under those words. He shook his head mutely, and it wasn't until he'd showered and changed and they were back in the car that he said anything more.

"I didn't," he said, his head once more leaning against the door, his face turned away.

"Huh? What was that?" Rick had to ask because Lewis' words had been too quiet for him to hear.

"I didn't—should have, but I didn't."

"What are we talking about, Robbie?"

"You were there. Barrie. He wanted Morse remember? I let him—"

"We were all there, Robbie. Morse chose to go…you know that. There wasn't anything you could have d—"

"I let him, Rick. It was his choice, and I let him make it. I was the sergeant—I did what I was told. And if Dr. Martin hadn't emptied the bullet chambers, if Curtis hadn't taken Barrie out—"**

"You'd never have lived with yourself. See? For some reason the rest of us never quite got, you always counted Morse worth two of you. The kid's the same way, Robbie."

Lewis shook his head in denial. "Hathaway's smarter than that," he said. "I'm not a Morse—but he could be. One day. If he didn't throw it all away today."

Rick frowned over at him. "You're twice the man Morse ever was. And, I'm not talking in value to the CID. Hathaway…maybe one day he'll be a detective half as good as you or Morse, and I'm not saying he's not a decent enough guy, but…he saved your life today, Robbie, and he made a very good deal of it as far as I'm concerned!"

Lewis shook his head again, but Rick pushed on, "Whatever. Just…don't talk like that in front of his folks, eh? Don't make them think this was all a foolish mistake."

"No. I won't do that," Lewis agreed somberly. Reality had slowly begun to push back the numbness that had wrapped itself around him earlier. A violent shudder shook him.

"Hold on, fella," Rick murmured sympathetically. Lewis echoed it as a silent plea to Hathaway, _Hold on, fella, hold on._

"You look like you might pull through yet," Hobson told him when he arrived back on the floor.

She and Innocent eyed him worriedly, and he sighed. He wasn't the one they should be concerned about.

"Nothing wrong with me," he growled. Neither of them looked terribly convinced or relieved by his words. He sighed again. If he wasn't so bone-weary he might have snarled a more convincing comment, but it was beyond him. "What are they saying now?" he asked instead.

"Well, if you're ready to be civil, I might just tell you," Hobson snapped, but even she couldn't quite work up the energy to really pull off the act. He was tired of the game. He slumped down in the seat beside her, took her hand, and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Just tell me, Laura. Please. I didn't hear a word that doctor said before, and I need to know."

She blinked sudden tears from her eyes and swallowed hard, but it was Innocent who had to fill him in when Hobson couldn't get the words out past the lump in her throat.

"He's holding his own right now. They've gotten the bullet out, repaired the damage they could." She shrugged. "It could have been worse. They'll be bringing him out of surgery very soon. They think…well, it's a little early to tell, but they are 'cautiously optimistic' he'll make it. As to a full recovery…that depends on…how much, if any—" she sighed, bit her lip, and finally spelled it out, "there might be brain damage from the lack of oxygen—he lost a good deal of blood." Lewis stared down at his hands. He'd scrubbed a lot of that blood off of them, but he could still feel it hot and wet and unstoppable seeping through his fingers. Innocent went on, "But, the signs are good. There's no reason not to hope he'll make a full recovery."

Lewis leaned forward, placed a hand over his mouth, and rocked slightly. Laura reached out and pulled him to her. He leaned against her and took deep wavering breaths. He hadn't…he'd been afraid to hope for so much, hadn't even dared believe the lad would live, let alone recover. "It could have been worse," Innocent had said, and he knew it very well could have been.

_**_The Day of the Devil_ Inspector Morse_


	4. Part Three: Taking the Lead

**Part Three: Taking the Lead**

_Chapter One: Reconciling Yesterday_

To his surprise, Hathaway awoke to a hospital room full of beeping machines and worried, anxious people. He'd expected something a bit more angelic and heavenly. And something a lot less painful. He blinked around in momentary confusion and wasn't sure whether he was relieved to find himself alive or disappointed.

His parents smiled hesitantly at him from either side of his bed. They'd aged a good ten years since he'd last seen them a week last Saturday…assuming, that was, he hadn't been lying in this hospital room for too many days. Almost losing a son would do that, he supposed. Age someone.

He swallowed down a wave of pain threatening to undo him and attempted to smile reassuringly up at them. He must have not managed it terribly well. His mother patted his hand weakly and began to quietly cry, and his dad bent over as though to kiss his other hand and stayed there fighting down tears of his own. Hathaway didn't know how to comfort either of them.

They had never been a demonstrative family. His mother might cry a bit here and there, usually more from anger than sorrow or fear, but overall…they were an unemotional lot. He felt acutely embarrassed for them all. Fortunately, the others in the room were hospital personnel who had presumably seen a lot worse and regardless were busily bustling about too focused on their own concerns to pay any attention to the emotional display going on at his bedside. Perhaps, they were a little too focused, a little too busy…perhaps, his parents crying at his bedside was as ominous as it was uncomfortable. Maybe, he shouldn't assume he was here to stay.

"Dad?" he croaked out. His voice was so weak he hardly heard himself. Still, his dad heard him.

"Jimmy," he said, straightening up and swiping a hand over his face. "It's all right, Son." Hathaway, who had never been a 'Jimmy' to anyone but a long-gone grandmother, took that 'all right' to mean 'we're here, Son' not 'you're all right' or even 'you're going to be all right'. Oddly enough though it was enough. He nodded his head weakly and drifted away.

There was a great deal of drifting over the next few days of his recovery. It was as exhausting as anything he'd ever done in his entire life. He'd been deathly ill once…or at least it had seemed that way to him. Hospital for days, IV's, ice chips, and some nasty medicine that he had clamped his mouth shut over and refused to take. Missed school assignments that had stacked up on the foot of his bed at home when his dad had finally carried him from the car to his room. He'd been so tired then that lifting a spoon to his mouth had been almost beyond him to say nothing of his school books. But that had not been anything to this.

He was vaguely aware of a trickle of visitors drifting in and out of the room while he drifted in and out of consciousness. His parents, of course. Though he wasn't sure that they ever actually left. They seemed to be permanent fixtures as much as the IV machines and monitors.

SCI Innocent, smiling benignly down at him and murmuring assurances about his job still being there for him when he was ready to come back. Well, that answered the whole dying question then, right? She wasn't the type to gloss over a little thing like death. He'd been afraid to ask his parents, afraid to force them to say the words if he hadn't been going to make it. He could have asked the staff, of course. Only how could he with his parents hovering anxiously close? Her words also took care of the permanent disability question. If she was holding his job for him…he was going to make it all the way.

"Thanks," he hoarsely whispered to her. And he meant it. He decided he was more than relieved to find himself still among the living.

She nodded an acknowledgment, but then her smile turned to a disapproving frown. "Still," she said sternly, "this really is unacceptable, James." He had no idea of what she was speaking…he'd had no intention of reporting to work with his tubes and hospital gown firmly in place. She didn't leave him wondering long. "Placing yourself in danger…" she shook her head forbiddingly. "You have a responsibility as a CID officer to protect yourself as well as your fellow officers or civilians. You acted recklessly, and it really mustn't happen again. I hope that is perfectly clear."

"Yes, Ma'am," he assured her. Perfectly clear. He could even understand her position though he couldn't promise her it wouldn't happen again.

"Nevertheless," she said, brightening, "it was a very brave thing, and the chief commissioner has placed a commendation in your file…there might be a medal in it for you in the end." His parents who had frowned at her harsh condemnation now basked in her approval, and he kept his mouth clamped tightly shut.

A reprimand, a commendation, and a medal—what were they next to a man's life?

Knowing Lewis was alive because of him…that was all the reward he needed. That made all his suffering worthwhile, and he'd go through it all again for similar results. But for a medal or a nice note in his file? Or a bollocking for wasting departmental resources?

She was too smart to believe any of that meant a thing to him. She raised an eyebrow at him and winked before she hurried off to who knew what meeting or emergency. So. Someone had insisted the message be given, and she'd given it. But, she hadn't bought it either. He smiled to himself weakly and nodded off to rest up from all the excitement her visit had entailed.

DI Lewis standing with his hands in his pockets, frowning down at him. _Ah…not happy either, are you, Sir?_ Another bollocking in the making there. Well, couldn't expect otherwise. Not here, not yet. Hathaway imagined how he would have felt if things had went the other way, if he were the one looking down on Lewis and Lewis were the one who'd taken a bullet for him. Well, it hadn't happen that way and Lewis would just have to get over it, wouldn't he? There'd be a 'thanks' eventually. Over a pint maybe, or a bottle at his flat. Later. For now, he settled for Lewis' grudging presence. It was after all why he was lying there in that bed in the first place.

Dr. Hobson, poking her head in while staff looked the other way. "They say you'll make a full recovery…just hang in there, all right? And, don't let Lewis get you down. Bit of survivor's guilt." She leaned over him and to his surprise kissed his forehead before saying, "Thanks, James. The ungrateful sod might not get around to saying it, but I will."

Somehow that 'thanks' was almost as misplaced as the commendation and medal…maybe not misplaced—unnecessary. Lewis was alive, and Hathaway…he'd gained an understanding, a certainty, and a peace that would see him through the rest of this life and into the next one. He'd gotten far more than he'd paid for. He was the grateful one. But, he could hardly explain that to her. _My pleasure_, he could have truthfully said, but he didn't. Last thing he needed to do was make them all think he'd lost his mind…he'd had enough neurological assessments to last him a lifetime.

If there were other visitors allowed to peek in on him during those first few days, he missed them. Most of the time it was just the three of them. It had been a long time since he'd been a child in their home, and even longer since he'd felt like one. He hadn't understood why, not until Dr. Stephen Black had been killed and the whole sorry story of Crevecoeur had come out.

He'd hidden what he'd known—sensed more like—about what had gone on there when he'd been young. Hidden it deep, turned his back on it, and forgotten just what it was that was lurking in the fetid swamp of his of childhood. But it had never really left him. It had loomed over him, filling him with a dread he could never quite shake. A dread that sooner or later the shoe was going to drop. And somehow, in his young mind, he'd felt responsible for that looming shoe, and all his life he'd dreaded what would happen when it fell.

"What happened here…you're not to blame for any of it. Not then. Not now," Lewis had assured him after the shoe had dropped and what he'd hidden had been dug up and exposed in the harsh light of a murder investigation. He knew now Lewis had been right. But, he also knew he hadn't been the only one waiting for that shoe to drop. The unease he'd felt growing up hadn't all been his. His parents were still living under that looming shadow.

He'd been a child. Innocent and ignorant of the evil permeating the hills and buildings of Crevecoeur. His parents though…if they'd known, if they'd allowed Mortmaigne to destroy Hopkiss and Briony and heaven only knew how many others…what did that make them?

Afraid for one. Afraid one day, he'd know what they had known. He'd know what they had allowed to happen because…what? It had been easier that way? Because the bills had needed paid? Because they'd felt just as helpless to stop Lord Mortmaigne as their son had been? Because…they were afraid to find out their son had been among the Lord's _special_ ones?

Hathaway couldn't absolve his parents of their guilt…if they had known, if they had let it go on. Nor could he judge them—that was between them and God. But, he could assure them it hadn't touched him…well, truthfully it had touched him. Made him into the man he was. In one sense, it had sent him racing to intercept the bullet that had put him here in this hospital room…well, no. He'd taken that bullet to save Lewis because the inspector was worth saving. Hathaway would have willingly been a living shield to protect Lewis even if he hadn't been seeking a worthwhile penitence for his misplaced guilt. Even so, he had been touched by the evil permeating his childhood. Just not in the way his parents probably feared. He could assure them of that.

"Dad, did you hear? While back? About Lord Mortmaigne?" he asked as his father fussed with his pillows.

His father stiffened slightly and froze for a brief moment before saying, "I heard."

His mother, busily watering and messing with the flowers filling the window sill, looked up and said, "Dreadful. I couldn't believe it. Paul was always such a nice boy…and the Lord. I can't believe it still. The police must have gotten it wrong."

"Dear…" his father said. "I am feeling a bit hungry after all…would you mind? Running down to the cafeteria and fetching me a bite of something? I'd go myself, but…"

"Of course," she said all too happy to have something she could do for someone.

After she was gone, Hathaway said, "It was Inspector Lewis and I at Crevecoeur. We didn't get it wrong."

His father sighed and sat wearily down on the chair by his side. "No, Son. I didn't think you had."

"You knew?"

"About…Mortmaigne and…yeah. Well," he clarified, "maybe not knew, but I…I _knew_ something was…going on."

"You didn't stop it."

"I couldn't, James. Who would have believed me? A man like that…he'd have found a way to turn it around. I would have ended up the one in the wrong. The way it works. The way it's always worked."

Hathaway didn't believe that, but they were talking about what his father believed…or feared. "I didn't know myself," he said quietly. "I thought—I felt something was wrong. I knew something bad was happening to some of the other kids, and I thought it was my fault."

"Your fault? How could it have been your fault?"

"I didn't stop it. I didn't save them."

"Oh, James, none of it was your fault. None of it."

"I know that now, Dad."

"Good."

"If…if you were worried or…about me?"

"Yes?" his dad asked, and it was as if the word was torn unwillingly from his throat.

"There's no need. There never was. Not about that."

His dad leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. He took a big shuddering breath and then stood up over Hathaway's bed. He leaned over his son and kissed his forehead, and a hot tear fell down on Hathaway's face and ran down his check as though it were his own. His father straightened up, sniffing and rubbing a hand over his face. He ruffled Hathaway's hair as though he were still a little boy and smiled down at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but his wife pushed through the door with his lunch and that was that.

_Chapter Two: Enjoying Today_

By that evening, Hathaway had made such a good recovery he was moved to the general floor and left a good number of tubes and monitors and such behind him. The move exhausted him, and it was just as well it came late in the day so he had the night to recuperate before open visiting brought with it another round of visitors.

Throughout the day, his colleagues popped in quietly and left quickly. He was surprised at how many made the trip over to shuffle awkwardly into the room and mumble a few, brief words. Mainly they wished him a speedy recovery and mentioned they were looking forward to having him back to work. He found that surprising as well. Just a thing to say he supposed. He didn't presume to think they were sincere.

(They were, of course. Somewhere along the way, he'd grown out of the socially inept young sergeant he'd once been. He'd missed the change, but his fellow officers hadn't. Once he'd been grudgingly accepted as Innocent's golden boy and then as Lewis' sergeant, but now he was appreciated as a competent colleague in his own right.)

There were those, the old timers for the most part, who paused on their way out, turned back to frown at him solemnly, and then with a nod or a word added their thanks to Hobson's. He would never forget those nods or mumbled thanks or the men who offered them. There'd still been a few of them hanging on when he made commissioner, and he had made sure their years of service and loyalty were well repaid.

_Acoustic Squared_ minus one out of action guitarist plus one infuriating stand in arrived in the early evening and stayed until the sisters despaired of ever getting rid of them and the floor quieted back down for the night. If the move the evening before had exhausted him, the band and their lively chatter should have brought him well past the point of prostration, but they didn't. Their energy and laughter buoyed him up and left him feeling better than he had since he'd chased Lewis to Woodstock.

"Good thing we brought Els in," Twanger declared. "Who knows when you'll be fit to pick up your instrument again."

"Better not leave it too long," his stand in warned, "I might just decide I don't want to give it up and then where will you be?"

"I'm not worried," he managed to reply. "You're rubbish, and we all know it."

"Rubbish, am I? Well, at least I show up for practice."

"Aye, man, she's got you there, Hath. Been days now since you've graced us with your presence."

"Ah, cut him some slack, Sticky. What's a guy got to do to get a break? If a bullet doesn't do it, what will?"

"Why? You thinking of making like a target so you can have a lie in too? You needn't bother…we can make beautiful music without your caterwauling."

"Oh, really. You'd be lost without me, man…you know you would."

They could and did go on like that for a good long time. Theirs was an easy camaraderie that washed over and around him in that hospital room just as their playing did on the stage. It demanded nothing from him, asked nothing, while giving him a place of belonging and contentment that he rarely found anywhere else. They needed him to anchor them. To provide the rich, melodic consonance that would let their music soar into intertwining, breathtaking layers of complexities without ever plunging into disharmony. He was their ground; they were the counterpoint to his staid, formal way of living.

_ChapterThree: Looking Forward to a Bright Tomorrow_

His parents took _Acoustic Squared'_s arrival as an opportunity to escape the hospital for an hour or two. His father made sure he had a fresh supply of ice chips, his mother fussed with his blankets and kissed him good-bye, and then they were off. Lewis heard the commotion from the hallway, decided Hathaway had more than enough visitors already, and left him to them. It was as if, even in hospital, the lines had been drawn somehow and weren't to be crossed.

Only Ellie would move easily from one world to the other and back again. She'd move easily from band member to Commissioner's wife, from serious and sympathetic supporter to laughing musician …whatever was needed, she'd be that.

She came with the band that night, and she left with them, throwing Hathaway a casual wave from the door. And he'd thought then his moment of clarity back in his car had been an oxygen-deprived muddle. She was just an infuriating woman who if he weren't careful would usurp his place in the band. It was just as well he wasn't able to completely convince himself of that because she was back in the morning. Alone and somber.

He'd never seen her somber. Serious, yes. She was a good listener and a good deal of what he had to say wasn't a laughing matter. So, serious but never somber. Not until that morning in his hospital room. The sisters had already taken him walking up and down the long corridor like a puppy in need of his daily constitutional, tidied him up, and settled him into the soft blanket-draped chair like the invalid he was.

With a little encouragement from him, they'd also managed to shoo his parents off for a while. As Lewis had yet to make his morning appearance to see for himself that his sergeant had survived another night, it was just the two of them for the first time since he'd missed that picnic half a lifetime ago. She sat quietly beside him, saying little, staring intently into his face as though she thought he might vanish if she looked away. He was paying for the long evening the night before and kept drifting off, but she didn't seem to mind.

He wasn't sure why she was there. He'd expected her the morning before, but she hadn't come until the evening. And then she'd just been one of the guys in the band. The easy banter, the laughing chidings, that casual wave at the door…he hadn't expected her back this morning. But every time he jerked awake she was still there staring quietly at him.

After the third time (threes figuring so heavily in his life at the moment, it had to be expected) he came awake to find her still there, she swallowed hard and forced out a smile. _Ah, off she'll be then, _he thought, and after the disappointment of the day before and the awkwardness of the morning, that thought came as a bit of a relief.

She'd been surprising him from the first moment he met her, and she'd keep right on doing so the rest of his life, so it really wasn't too astonishing that he'd gotten it all wrong once again.

"So," she said. "This is what it's like to be in love with a copper. Never knowing when you don't show up for a picnic or a practice or anything, I suppose, if you're out on a case and have just forgotten to call or if you're bleeding to death on some God-forsaken road to Woodstock. Hospitals and watching you hurting and drugged out of your skull on pain meds that are obviously bloody useless and feeling bloody useless myself!"

"I don't make a habit of getting shot," he said when he'd managed to choke down his surprise at her outburst.

"Well, there's that then," she said. She was still frowning at him. Still angry. Innocent and whoever had sent her to express their disapproval, Lewis, and now her?

"Are you? In love with a copper?" he asked.

"Well, let's see, Sherlock," she said with a biting tone he'd never heard her use before, "if you don't know the answer to that one, you must be complete rubbish at your job. Could be why you're lying there, and I'm sitting here sick to death with worry."

"You didn't come yesterday."

She stood up and paced in an agitated circle before flinging herself down in the chair beside him again. "I was here. I've been here every day…since I've known where you were anyway. I just…"

"They wouldn't let you in?"

"I didn't ask. I was afraid. To see you…afraid I couldn't bear it. Afraid I'd have to give you up because I couldn't stand to be in love with a cop. I'd come and I'd stand around in the hallway and then I'd go away…you've turned me into a coward, Hath! Me! I've never been afraid of anything—and you've turned me into a bloody coward!"

"But, you're here now." She shrugged and sniffed and stared over at him with tears in her eyes. "Does that mean you're here to stay?" he asked.

"Perhaps. Are you asking because you want me to be? Or because you're afraid you're not going to be able to get rid of me so easily? If a bullet doesn't do it, what will, eh?"

"I can't promise you it won't happen again."

"I know."

"Stay," he said. He wanted to say a good deal more, but he was once again drifting away.

"All right." She took his hand and watched him sleep. She'd hardly slept at all herself since that evening he had missed their picnic, and she was dozing beside him when Lewis popped in.


	5. Epilogue: Biting the Bullet

**Epilogue: _Biting the Bullet_**

Lewis stood quietly watching the two of them sleep. He'd gotten quite good at timing his visits to coincide with just the right time in the med schedule to ensure he got a good view of his sergeant without having to stand around and make small talk with him. A quick nod to Mum and Dad and then off to work or home.

He wasn't quite ready to talk to the man who had saved his life. What could he say? "Thanks and if you ever do something so stupid again I'll kill you myself." It wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all, but it was all that came to mind. Well, that and "Thank God you're alive!" which ran through his mind several times an hour but wasn't something he felt comfortable blurting out either.

He nodded his head over the two sleeping beauties. The girl must be the one that had had Hathaway acting all twitterpated the week or two before…before he'd ended up in here. Lewis had caught glimpses of her in the hallways since that first long night in ICU, and he'd wondered. But, she'd scurried away like a scared rabbit every time he'd moved to speak to her, and he hadn't had the impetus to chase her down. Well, she was here now, and that had to be good. Maybe she could talk some sense into the fool so he wouldn't have to knock it into him.

Val had certainly had a lot to say about him and unnecessary risks and his responsibilities to home. Val and Morse. Neither one of them would have let him throw his life away, but he'd not given a thought to making sure Hathaway knew better. First thing he should have taught him when he'd taken him on as a young sergeant. The very first thing.

Despite his negligence, it seemed his sergeant was growing up…and a good thing it was, too. About time for Lewis to hand in his papers. Good thing he hadn't gotten saddled with someone like himself. It had taken Morse fifteen years to whip him into a passable inspector…well, near as. Oh, he knew, there were plenty who claimed Morse had held him back, kept him a sergeant way past time. Lewis had thought that himself more than once, but…

Hathaway though. If he could convince the lad to stick with it, he could easily make inspector before Lewis was unceremoniously turned out to pasture. Lyn was still agitating for him to move up by her and the grand baby, but…Laura's job was here. He wouldn't ask her to leave it behind for him, and he could no longer imagine leaving her behind. Lyn wouldn't really want him underfoot all the time anyway; he could make the trip easy enough if he didn't have to worry about being called to a murder scene at the last moment every time they made plans. And Innocent still kept harping on about him taking a teaching post and passing his knowledge on to the kiddies…like they'd listen to an old has-been like him even if he had something to teach them. But, still. Might be something to do while Laura was off to work. Either way, he couldn't hang around much longer waiting on the lad to wake up and realize he'd grown up to be a copper instead of a priest.

Wrong figure of speech that. Hathaway chose that moment to blink himself back to awareness.

"Sergeant," Lewis quietly said when he had accepted there was no way for him to sneak out graciously.

Hathaway swallowed and gave him a feeble 'Sir'. Lewis looked around for the ice chips and was pleased to see there was a water pitcher there beside them as well. Progress then.

"Ice or water?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Sir…you don't have to—"

"Course I don't," he said. "But…" he glanced at Hathaway before finishing, "least I can do…so? Ice or water?"

"Ice, please."

"Sure," he said. He carefully spooned a few chips into his sergeant's mouth and wiped the dribbles away with his thumb. He motioned to the sleeping girl beside Hathaway and said, "I suppose she followed you home and now you want to keep her?"

Hathaway smiled weakly and said, "Something like."

"Good," Lewis told him. "Someone like that at home…should make you think a bit before you end right back in here or in a metal drawer a few doors over."

"Could be," Hathaway told him because that was the only way he was going to get Lewis to let it go.

"Make sure it does, Sergeant," Lewis ordered him. He sat the cup of ice chips down and looked around. "Anything else you need before I get meself back to work? I've lost my sergeant and I've no time for dilly-dallying."

"No. Thanks. I'm good."

"Right then. I'll be off."

"You won't—you haven't…"

"What?"

"Put in for another sergeant?"

Lewis snorted. "I've hardly gotten you house-trained! I'll not be taking on some wet-behind-the-ears recruit. You can forget that. You'll just have to get yourself fit and back to the job before I get tired of doing all the work on me own and take that early retirement after all! I'd planned to stay on until you made inspector, but you take too long and you won't have me to hold your hand crossing the street."

Hathaway opened his mouth to tell him once again that he had no plans on going for his inspector's, but there would be time for that later. Enough now to know Lewis was waiting for him.

A lot had happened since Lewis had plopped that OSPRE box down next to his laptop, and who knew? He might yet decide to take the test just to make Lewis and Innocent happy. Bite the bullet so to speak.

_Thanks to WhyAye for naming the band and to Anti-Kryptonite and Elistia for naming the guys in the band._


End file.
